Wax Woman
by teaholic
Summary: Pre-series short. Lestrade gets an offer to help solve a case from a mysterious man intruding on his 'fake' crime scene.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

"It's another one," Anderson called out, having made the identification before the detective inspector made it to what appeared to be a severed hand.

"Why do I bother showing up?" the man mumbled in exasperation. "Take care of it." By now, everyone was well acquainted with the bagging and tagging of evidence, even if it was just a waste of police time.

Who the hell left fake severed body part lying around for people to find anyway? He didn't know who's idea of a sick joke with was, but he was getting tired of it. Four times this week, he had come out to various 'crime scenes' only to find no evidence, no killer, and no real human body. Instead, they had collected a wax foot, two hands, and a pair of dummy arms.

As he walked back to his car, Greg was faintly aware of a young man in a long overcoat watching, the same person that had been watching from just beyond the police tape at the last staged crime scene, now that he thought about it. This time he was inside the marked off perimeter, however.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step back on the other side of the police tape until we've cleared the area," he told the bystander.

Ignoring his request, the man took another few steps forward, watching closely as the forensics team handled the 'body.'

"Sir."

He watched the corner's of the other man's mouth turn up into a slight smirk, as if being called _sir_ was suddenly funny.

"This is a police investigation. Please step back or-"

"This one's different," the intruder said, cutting him off.

"What? Back behind the line or I'll arrest you," he caught himself.

"I think you'll find this one isn't like the others," the man said, an interested glint in his eyes. "The name's Sherlock Holmes." He quickly closed the distance between them and handed the DI a piece of paper with a number on it. "Let me know when you'd like some help solving your case."

With that, he ducked under the police tape and disappeared back into the night.

Ӂ

He had never seen anything like it. The insolent git acted like no one could touch him. He didn't even flinch at the threat of being arrested.

Greg Lestrade absently unfolded the piece of paper he'd shoved in his pocket. Sherlock Holmes – the name sounded familiar somehow – but he'd remember meeting someone like that. And what did he mean they would find this one was different? Maybe he should have brought him in for questioning. He'd looked like just another curious bystander though; he'd thought maybe even a reporter at first. They could be pushy and arrogant sometimes, but they didn't usually offer to solve his cases. Typically it was just the opposite – they wanted to know why he hadn't solved them already.

"Boss!" Sergeant Donovan called out as she entered his office.

"What is it?"

"It's not wax."

"What do you mean it's not wax?" She had to be referring to the latest addition to their dummy collection – a wax hand they had picked up not two hours ago. "Anderson said it was wax at the crime scene." Anderson might not be the most brilliant of forensic investigators, but he could certainly tell a wax hand from a real one.

"Anderson was wrong. I mean, yes, it is wax - on the outside. Underneath, there is an actual human hand."

Interesting. Perhaps the case wasn't going to be quite as pointless as he'd thought, Lestrade mused. And Sherlock had been right – it was different. What else might the midnight bystander know? He was beginning to think he might have to give him a call and find out.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"When he picked up the hand, he seemed surprised, like the weight was wrong. All I said was that something was different, that made it interesting, so I offered to help."

"So you didn't actually _see _anything? Who might've put the hand there? Or anyone missing a hand?"

"Obviously whoever lost the hand is no longer in need of it. It's highly unlikely she is still alive."

"I never said it was a woman," Lestrade pointed out. "I think you know more than you're letting one. If you're hindering a police investigation-"

"You can stop with the idle threats, Detective. It was a simple deduction. The wax hand you found wasn't very large, so it had to be a smaller man's or a woman's. The actual hand, obviously has to be smaller than the one you found to be coated heavily with wax and sculpted into a realistic looking hand. Since women typically have smaller hands than men, I deduced it was a woman's."

Lestrade nodded, seeing the reasoning behind the logic. "Well, was there anything else you _noticed_?"

"I'd like to see the hand, not covered in wax."

"I hardly know you. I can't bring you into Scotland Yard and share all my evidence. There are protocols."

Sherlock didn't fight the urge to roll his eyes. Protocols. It was like working with Mycroft, always a proper way of doing things. Luckily, he was getting quite adept at bending the rules. Or, when the need arose, ignoring them completely.

"Do you want my help, or not?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But I can't, not like this."

"Then I'd like to come in and offer an anonymous tip on one of your ongoing drug investigations."

"I don't see what that has to do with the case."

"Good, Inspector. You catch on quickly."

Ӂ

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted as he entered the room ten minutes after he should have been there.

"Morning," Lestrade returned.

"Sorry about that, had a little trouble finding the loo. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, drug investigation."

Lestrade doubted he had been anywhere near the toilets, but dutifully pulled out a pen and paper to take notes.

Sherlock scribbled down an address. "The person you're looking for should be there tonight, just after eight, and I'm sure you'll find all the incriminating evidence you need to make an arrest as well."

Standing up, he returned his gloves to his hands.

"You came to give me an address?" the inspector asked incredulously. If it was all Sherlock promised, it was more than he could've hoped for. "You could've just phoned."

"I wanted to make sure it was correct." He gave the slightly older man a brief knowing smile. "I'll be in touch."

Greg Lestrade watched as the other man left, easily finding his way out. He obviously knew his way around Scotland Yard pretty well. Not that he'd really had any doubt when he saw him coming from the back halls. What was he supposed to do though? If his tip proved correct, he'd given them everything for a case they hadn't had any new leads on in months. He couldn't arrest him for that.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

According to the police report, the owner of the severed hand was Victoria Evans. She had one count of drink driving on her record, and little else was known about her. The address with the arrest record was several years old, but he had tried it anyway, finding no one home. This he had followed with asking around at every bar within two miles of her address. No one had seen her. And he needed to devise a more efficient way of covering the ground, Sherlock mentally added.

He dropped into a chair and picked up the cup of tea from the table next to it, trying to think of a new plan of attack.

The killer had a very unique way of disposing of the body. Yes. Why hadn't that occurred to him earlier? With such a unique skill set, and the equipment to make realistic body pieces. The number of suspects should be drastically diminished.

This late, any museums would be closed however, he realized to his own disappointment. No point trying to follow that lead until morning.

Ӂ

"Call for you," Sergeant Donovan said as soon as Lestrade walked into the building.

He had literally been in the building less than thirty seconds. It was going to be one of _those_ days, he thoughts disheartedly as he took the phone.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice on the other end said. "I suspect your killer was affiliated with Madame Tussauds. Meet me there I twenty minutes."

The caller hung up before he could reply. Yeah, definitely one of _those _days.

"I'm going out," he told no one in particular. "I'll call if I need backup."

Ӂ

Sherlock was waiting outside the wax museum when Lestrade arrived.

"I've already talked to the manager, but he wants the police here before he'll let me into the back," he explained. "Something about me trying to disrupt business." he shrugged dismissively.

"Well, I'm here, so might as well have a look."

The manager allowed them in the the stipulation that they 'please not disturb anything,' something Lestrade was wondering about the possibility of as he watched the continuous movement of the man with him. He didn't seem to be able to stand still, flitting back and forth from figure to figure, pulling out a magnifying glass several times to analyze some minute detail.

After poring over every detail and wax figure, he tucked away the magnifier and stood straight. "Now the employees."

One by one, he met each employee, usually asked a couple questions, then let them return to their jobs. After finishing the last one, he disappointedly announced the killer wasn't among them.

"He's not here. Do you have any other employees? Part time workers or anyone who called in sick?"

"Yes. Sara Morris. She works every other day, alternating with Katherine, who you already interviewed. She didn't get along well with Victoria, but I can't see her killing her."

"I never said Victoria was who was killed."

"I remember you, yesterday showing a picture at the bar. I didn't say anything because I had no idea where she was staying. I haven't seen her in several months, but she used to work here in a janitorial role."

"That would have been useful yesterday," Sherlock grumbled. "I'll need an address for Miss Morris."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

"You could have ridden over with me, you know," Lestrade said as Sherlock paid his cab fare and joined him.

"I had to stop somewhere on the way," he answered vaguely.

They climbed the steps and Sherlock knocked on the door. A minutes later, a dark haired woman in her forties answered the door.

"Miss Morris?"

"Yes," she replied uncertainly.

"We're from Scotland Yard. Could we ask you a few questions?"

She opened the door slowly.

After being led to the sitting room, they all sat in an uncomfortable silence long enough Lestrade figured he better start coming up with some questions to ask, because apparently Sherlock was leaving the leadership role he'd taken so far on the investigation.

"Could I get you anything – coffee, tea?" she finally offered, tired of the uneasy silence.

"Coffee please. Black, two sugars."

She quickly disappeared, and Lestrade turned to his companion inquisitively. "Should I be questioning her, or -"

"I've got everything I need," Sherlock responded, "but I suppose that would be the simplest way."

"Got everything? You haven't said a word."

"Miss Morris."

"Yes?" A head popped out from around the corner.

"Did you kill Victoria Evans?"

Her gaze fell and she stepped fully into view.

"It was an accident."

Always is, he thought skeptically.

"Sara and I often didn't see eye to eye, but I'd never intentionally kill her," she explained. "The main problem was that she was so clumsy. After the museum closed, she cleaned up a bit, but she was always bumping things or knocking them over. I'm sure she didn't mean to, but it's easy to lose your temper when someone ruins a project you've spent weeks on.

"Is that what happened – you lost your temper?"

"She quit about two months ago. I didn't expect to see her again. The other day, she showed up out of the blue, demanding to know why I was always so mean to her. I tried to explain it was nothing personal, but she got pushy. She shoved me and I fell into some hardening wax, a project I had been working on for some time." Sara was in tears now, her sobbing making it difficult to understand her.

"I-I pushed her back. Victoria hit her head and cut herself pretty badly, but she got up. She kept fighting. I forgot until it was too late. Everything happened so fast."

"Forgot what?"

"She was taking blood thinners for some other condition she had. She bled out right in front of me," Sara sobbed.

"So instead of calling the police, you decided to hack apart her body and hide her in wax mannequins?" Sherlock suggested, unimpressed by her whimpering.

"I know it looks bad, but it's not like I went in there planning to kill her. I was scared and didn't know what to do. I couldn't drag her out, and it was the only way I knew to get rid of the body. I should have called the police then," she admitted, but once I had started I couldn't very well call – it would look even worse."

Ӂ

Sherlock had solved the case, he made the arrest, and somewhere along the way Sherlock had disappeared again. It was almost too easy.

He had to give him credit, whoever this Sherlock Holmes fellow really was, he was good, and efficient. It was startling to see how unaffected he was though. He boasted no military or police training, yet seemed un-phased by Sara's tears and unaffected by Victoria's murder. All he seemed interested in was solving the puzzle. While useful, he found that fact somewhat disconcerting. He had no idea whether he would see him again or if this was a one time thing, but Lestrade found himself wanting to know more about the mysterious man who intruded on his crime scene.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Sherlock Holmes. After spending hours he should have spent sleeping, Lestrade knew little more about him. There was no record of any major tragic events in his life that might have caused his calloused detachment that he could find. There was no denying Sherlock had an impressive skill set, but his research hadn't taught him that. Sherlock had tried to offer the police a tip on a drowning investigation when he was eight; it had been largely ignored and the incident ruled accidental though. He had been picked up during a drugs bust a couple years earlier, but strangely no charges were ever filed, and he walked.

That was about it. The only family he seemed closely linked to was an older brother, Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to occupy a fairly high position in the government, but oddly little more was known about him, including what his actual job title was.

With so little information, he wondered how he and Sherlock had crossed paths, how he had known about the 'fake' bodies that turned out to not be so fake, and if he'd ever work with him, or even see him, again. Only time would tell.

Ӂ

Greg arrived Friday morning in a good mood. Casework had been light, he and the wife had been getting along well, and he had the weekend off. And to make things even better, he'd finally gotten that new mobile phone he'd been thinking of getting for ages.

Sergeant Donovan entered his office with a perplexed look on her face before turning to her boss. "We have another one – man killed in central London, apparently a stabbing."

Her phone vibrated again and she looked down to check it, the confused look returning. "It says 'wrong.'"

Abruptly Greg's phone buzzed as well, notifying him of a new text.

'I'll be in touch. -SH'


End file.
